


Ordinary Days

by Eloquy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloquy/pseuds/Eloquy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just the ordinary days were left to come. And those were the best."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordinary Days

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock comes back, after three years.

 

 

For the past twenty minutes, he had been using Sherlock's shirt, carelessly thrown over the chair's arm, to ground himself. To reassure himself that it was real. The dirty white piece of fabric was thoroughly crumpled under his hand, and, if Greg was looking a bit more closely, was missing one or two buttons that might have suffered from the previous night's eager reunion.

He wondered for a moment if Sherlock had done it on purpose. If leaving his shirt here was his way to show he was back, after all this time. After being dead. If he had thought that spreading various pieces of clothes over the furniture was the only way to fill the empty void that had been Greg's flat for the last three years.

But planned or not, Greg couldn't just bring himself to mind. Not the coat which was probably crawling with fleas, nor the muddy shoes on the rug, or the rather smelly socks hanging from the potted ficus. It was so unimportant, so inconsequential next to Sherlock, who was standing by the window in one of his own too large T-shirts, observing the waking London traffic. 

Sherlock, whom knuckles he had brushed earlier when handing him a mug of coffee, and who had felt so real at that moment that he had had to kiss him, fiercely.

The spilled coffee had been summarily mopped afterwards, leaving dark smudges on the counter, but it hardly mattered. Not today.

 

“Don't.”

Greg jerked his head upwards, meeting Sherlock's rather stern gaze.

“What?”

“You were about to say something stupid. Mawkish.”

 

He was left nonplussed for a moment, not quite certain if Sherlock had indeed been able to read something in his eyes that he was not yet aware of. It wouldn't have been the first time. Nor the last. But it was still unsettling and he had to ask, feeling a bit stupid.

“What was I going to say?”

Sherlock made an wide gesture with his arm, as if trying to catch, if not the words, at least the intended meaning.

“Whatever you people say in those situations. That it is the best day of your life, or something.”

Greg chuckled a bit. Leaning forward to take a sip of his lukewarm coffee, he considered for a moment what Sherlock had said. When he answered, it was more like he was talking to himself than addressing the other man.

“Always found the idea of choosing one day to be the best of a whole lifetime utterly depressing.”

He felt more than he saw Sherlock's change of posture, edging closer to him, exuding strong interest.

“Why?”

 

The question did not hold the confused tone Sherlock sometimes directed at Greg, or at John, when in presence of complex emotions that he didn't quite grasp. It was the sure, inquisitive tone of a man who already had made up his mind on the matter, but strongly desired to learn about other's views.  
It was Sherlock being interested, engaged, valuing Greg's opinion as much as his own, and this unexpected balance and openness left Greg speechless for a moment.

He knew it would take a few months to adjust, to discover how much those three years had changed Sherlock. He had only gotten a glimpse of it until now. It was still Sherlock, both in body and mind, but his stance was different. A barely-concealed wariness showed in hunched shoulders. He was slower, more prudent, more collected. One could call that growing up, or growing older, but Greg was not certain that those shifts would have happened if Sherlock had stayed in London.

He swallowed the last of his coffee before settling the mug carefully on the table, giving himself some time to think over his answer. Seeing Sherlock hoover awkwardly next to him, not daring to approach, he extended his arm and nodded at the couch. Soon enough, a warm body was pressed against his side.

 

He started slowly, trying to organize his thoughts on the go. Rather than a problem of not knowing what to say, it was mostly a problem of saying it in the right order.

“I know some people like to brag about the best days of their life. Like to choose. Their first kiss. Their graduation. Their wedding day or when they have a kid. When they get the job they want.”

He tried to find more examples to make his point, but Sherlock, nodding softly against his chest, showed his understanding. He went on.

“Point is, I feel like the moment you pick one, you forego any other coming afterwards. And if a better one comes afterwards, you're wary to call it “best”, as it would somehow seem to diminish the importance of the previous one. Or make you feel like you're perjuring yourself.”

 

He paused for a moment, considering his next words. It felt strange, to talk for so long without being interrupted. To spill his thoughts as they were coming, without being afraid of being wrong or being judged. Two things he had gotten used to in the past years. But it was not the same any more.

“And then, there's the expectations. You know, when you expect a day to be wonderful. To be one of the best. You do whatever you can to make it work, and in the end, it just won't. Because you have to work for it. The best days come unprepared. It's the ones you don't plan. The ones you don't expect, but which just happen.”

Sherlock heaved a small sigh, but remained silent, encouraging Greg by stroking his arm with gentle fingers. The next words held a bit of reverence.

“That's the best days. The ones that start ordinary, but when comes midnight, and you look back on them, you realizes they were nothing short of extraordinary.”

 

His eyes were trained on the ceiling, replaying memories on the blank, empty surface.

“And those days? Those days, you shouldn't have to pick one to represent the rest. They are good because they are unique, each and everyone of them. Choosing one means undermining the others, and it's not good, because they are all worth the same. And they're priceless.”

He lifted his head, gazing intently at Sherlock., trying to get his meaning across with more than words.

“So I don't have a best day. Or best days. I have a string of ordinary days turned wonderful, and that's good enough for me.”

 

A long silence stretched between them, until Sherlock swallowed and averted his eyes. His next words were hesitant.

“Those days...”

“Yes?”

Greg saw him ponder for a moment, before asking softly.

“Am I a part of them?”

“Oh, Sherlock...” A long, fervent kiss broke any further attempt at communication. Which was not a problem in itself, as words seemed to be more of a hindrance as anything in such a moment.

 

Later, when Greg had his hand buried in Sherlock's hair, and both of them had caught their breath, he managed to whisper fondly. “You're in most of them.”


End file.
